


to rot, to dream, to disappear

by commodorecliche



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), AKA The Hell AU, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, First Time, Getting Together, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Psychological Horror, Rescue, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Torment, love saves the day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: this is a story about Hell; this is a story about loss; this is a story of determination and our unwillingness to let go.this is a story about love and separation and the fears we harbor deep inside our souls: the fear we have that we might lose the ones we love.this is, ultimately, a story of love and redemption and transcendence in even the darkest of places.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53
Collections: Primus Inter Pares





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was loosely inspired by the novel/movie What Dreams May Come, in which two soul mates must find each other in Hell. it's been a brainchild of mine for a while now and I just haven't been able to let it go. 
> 
> or, in short: Crowley is taken to Hell, Aziraphale must find him once again. 
> 
> title is a mixture of quotes:  
> 1) "your brain is meat. it rots and disappears."  
> 2) "to sleep, perchance to dream"

**::**

_"Everyone's Hell is different. It's not all fire and pain. The real Hell is your life gone wrong."_

**::**

_“My Lord!_ ” Dagon huffs, shuffling into the poorly lit basement office. An outright _massive_ file folder slips from Dagon’s arms and slams onto the desk in front of Beelzebub with a poignant thud, “He’s at it _again_.” 

Beelzebub tilts forward in their chair and eyes the folder - it’s at least eight inches thick now. It’s bigger now than it was last time, and it was bigger _then_ than it was the time before that. It’ll be bigger the next time they see it again, Beelzebub is sure about that. It’s 6,000 years thick, at this point. Beelzebub sighs and slouches back into their throne. They drag an exasperate hand across their forehead. Something has to be done. 

Beelzebub waves their hand: the file flings open, slinging photographs and documents across the desk and down onto the floor. Beelzebub sucks their lip into their mouth, digging their teeth into it a little more roughly than was probably necessary. 

“Crowley…” Beelzebub grumbles, eyeing one of the hundreds (if not thousands) of photographs of him and the Principality Aziraphale that litter the floor. The image in the picture moves, showing the angel and the demon walking side by side together through the park. The angel has clearly said something rather entertaining, as Crowley’s face breaks out into a large, uninhibited grin. 

He looks unguarded and comfortable; Hell, he looks downright _happy_. 

“Revolting.” 

It’s an _awful_ look for a demon. _The traitor._

“Sire,” Dagon says again, “what’s to be done about him? We can’t just… leave him alone to… to frolick about with this _angel_ . They don’t even hide it anymore. They’re practically flaunting it after the-” Dagon pauses and lowers their voice, “the holy water incident.” Voice back to normal volume, they continue, “He’s _mocking_ us! He thinks they’ve _won_.” 

“He’s got to be dealt with,” Beelzebub says, like it’s obvious. Like Dagon hadn’t thought of that already. 

Dagon flinches - the memory of Crowley basking in a warm bath of Holy Water still fresh in their mind. They shake their head. 

“We can’t _destroy_ him, my Lord.” 

“No, no, of course not. He’s gone too native and we can’t afford another PR _nightmare_ . The underlings might get… _ideaszzzz_ … might go off and find their own naughty little angels to _fraternize_ with.” 

Beelzebub stands from the throne and paces the room in slow, determined steps. They stop as they come up on one of the many scattered pictures on the floor. They cock their head and bend down to pick it up, clutching it between their grizzled fingers. 

This, oh yes, _this_ , now this looks cozy. 

The Demon Crowley and the Principality Aziraphale, drinking together (much like they always have done), but there is a new closeness to them now. A level of barely restrained comfort that Beelzebub is sure has been brewing for millennia now. 

_Should’ve stopped this disgrace sooner_ , they think to themselves. 

They watch the moving image between their fingers. Crowley and the angel sit beside each other on a worn-soft sofa in the middle of a bookshop. They sit close - they touch a bit more than usual. Hands hover when they hadn’t hovered prior to the would-be Armageddon. Soft little touches here - long, adoring gazes there. 

_How comfortable. How tender._

In the image, Crowley smiles at something the angel says. It’s wide and unashamed - _enthralled_ by whatever _nonsense_ this celestial creature has uttered. He leans in too close to listen more fully; Aziraphale’s hand touches his thigh. Crowley’s sunglasses are gone, and even Beelzebub - an entity of absolute darkness - can see how bright and loving Crowley’s gaze is. 

_How_ **_vulnerable_ ** _._

Beelzebub grins. 

“We can’t destroy him… But… I think he’szzz gone native enough that he still could suffer _immensely_. Tell me, Dagon,” Beelzebub flings the picture back down to the floor, “when a human soul no longer responds to physical torment, what do we do?” 

It’s rhetorical - every demon knows this answer. There’s only so long a soul will respond to physical pain before the mind eventually blocks it out. If one is to spend eternity torturing a soul, one must get creative. 

“We hurt the mind, Sire.” 

“Yes.” 

“Take what they love.” 

“ _Yes_.” 

Dagon starts to smile, but falters, shakes their head

“But… We-we can’t harm the _angel_ , either, Sire. He’s… _native_ , as well” 

Beelzebub cocks their head, nodding - idle and dismissive. The archangels, of course, had already filled the Lords of Hell in on their little _incident_ up in Heaven. Informed them Aziraphale’s… immunity to Hellfire. 

“No, no, of course not… But… if we play our cards right, we won’t have to even touch the angel.” 

Dagon pauses for a moment, watching as Beelzebub struts back to the throne and flops into it. Their eyes meet. Understanding spreads across Dagon’s face and they smile a fanged, toothy grin. A boil at the corner of their mouth pops and pus dribbles down their chin as they nod their understanding. 

“Bring the Demon Crowley back to the Pit, Dagon. We have a life to deszzztroy.” 

Dagon nods again - something dark and fiery lights up behind their eyes. 

“Aye, Sire.” 

**::**

It’s been months now since the _Incidents_ (as Heaven and Hell are now calling them) with the Holy Water and the Hellfire, and Aziraphale and Crowley have wasted no time in sinking back into their familiar rhythms. They meet in art museums, they meet at cafes, they dine together in all those fancy restaurants with all those fancy desserts that Aziraphale loves. They drink together, and talk nonsense together, and pass out together in all the same ways they had before Armageddon had reared its ugly head.

But now, it feels a little more free. 

And well, if there are a few more lingering glances and a few more reticent touches shared between them now, neither of them care to bring it up. 

It’s been 6,000 years in the making, really. 6,000 years of secrecy. 6,000 bloody _long_ years of starving for affection. Staving themselves off with ‘chance’ meetings in restaurants or on buses in the city. 6,000 years of pretending that a little contact every few decades (or sometimes centuries) would be enough to sate them. Crowley rather feels that they’ve earned this slight reprieve. If anything, he feels he’s earned the right to meet the angel’s eyes when he wants to, or to touch his arm, his back, his leg whenever they stand or sit too close together. He’s earned that. When their lips are stained with wine and their eyes are blurred with drink, Crowley rather feels he’s earned the closeness that Aziraphale allows him. 

It isn’t much - nothing messy, nothing that might cross any celestial lines, not yet at least. For now, it’s all rather new, and much like an infant learning to walk, so too must they learn which foot is supposed to go in front of the other - but it’s plenty for now. 

But perhaps he hasn’t been careful enough. Crowley always worries… 

Perhaps they are too comfortable, too complacent, too reassured by their brief and fleeting victory to consider that the cosmos weren’t finished with them yet. 

These last few months in the wake of Armageddon? They’ve so easy. Much too _easy_ . Aziraphale must sense it too. They’ve stopped the Apocalypse, they’ve worn each other’s faces, they’ve _demanded_ to be left alone, they’ve moved on with their lives. Successfully. Easily.

But 6,000 years of paranoia and time spent glancing over their shoulders aren’t so easily forgotten. Tangible worry and dread still live and churn somewhere deep within Crowley’s gut.

Sure, they’re free now… But should it really be this _easy_?

Call it a demonic sixth sense but there’s something in the air tonight that tells Crowley that the bottom is going to fall out again. 

It’s only a matter of time. 

“I think, “Aziraphale tells him one evening, drawing Crowley out of this thoughts, “that we deserve to relax.”

He settles down close to Crowley as he tells him this, sloughing comfortably down onto the sofa in the bookshop, a glass of wine in each hand. He passes one to his companion and rests a casual hand atop Crowley’s knee. 

“That we do, Angel, that we do,” Crowley murmurs around the rim of his glass. 

Aziraphale reclines back into the sofa, melting himself in as a sign of true comfort, and begins to talk. 

He babbles on about some old book he’d dug up from the ruins of the Library of Alexandria - and as much as Crowley wants to pay attention, he simply cannot. There are words slipping from Aziraphale’s wine-red lips, but they’re just noises. In this sudden moment, as Crowley watches Aziraphale from across his wine glass, the motions of Aziraphale’s mouth become far more important than the sounds those lips are producing. The shape of them is delightful, he notes. The plush of his tongue as it darts out periodically to wet his lips is alluring. The gentle curvature of his body all but _seductive_ in the dim lighting of the bookshop. And so Crowley watches and leans in close and touches Aziraphale’s leg much like Aziraphale has touched his own. 

He smiles - and he finds he seems to be doing that an _awful_ lot lately - when Aziraphale doesn’t pull away or abate the touch. But, as much as Crowley would like to live in this very moment, it is fleeting. 

Something in the air _changes_. 

The room goes dark around them. 

Crowley’s smile falters. 

A hot presence surges through the atmosphere around them, charging the air with morbid electricity. Aziraphale, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t pause his speech, continuing to ramble about all of the work those poor scholars lost back in 48 BC. But as he tals, a whiff of brimstone touches Crowley’s nostrils and he squeezes Aziraphale’s leg for reassurance. He glances around the room, his attention drawn away from Aziraphale, looking for the awful and dark aura that he senses is closing in atop the bookshop. 

It’s astounding that the angel hasn’t felt it. Perhaps the wine has dulled his senses. Be that as it may, it _hasn’t_ dulled Crowley’s. 

_Hell hasn’t forgotten…_ Crowley thinks to himself, but he can’t bring himself to say it aloud. Aziraphale is so focused on the topic at hand, so enthusiastic to be sharing his thoughts with Crowley, that he hasn’t even noticed the grim look that’s come over Crowley’s face. His hand trembles. 

_No…_ , Crowley pleads to no one. 

6,000 years and he still can’t have this? 6,000 _goddamn_ **_years_ **and he still isn’t free? 

Darkness begins to creep down from the ceilings, seeping down the walls like viscous black tar. 

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice it. Instead, he appears to only notice Crowley’s distress as the demon carefully extricates his hand from Aziraphale’s leg. 

“And I did try to warn them about the fire, you know, but they… they-” Aziraphale pauses mid-sentence, looking down to watch Crowley withdraw his touch. He furrows his brow and turns to meet Crowley’s gaze. 

“Are you alright, Crowley? Dear boy, I say, you’ve gone rather pale…” 

As if to punctuate their closeness, Aziraphale lets his hand rub reassuringly up and down along Crowley’s thigh. Crowley swallows the thick lump that has built up in this throat - how does Aziraphale not feel this awful presence? How does he not see the darkness that is threatening to swallow this very shop whole. 

Unless… Unless Aziraphale wasn’t meant to see it. 

Crowley’s breath hitches as his eyes tear frantically around the bookshop - up and down, panning across each and every wall from floor to ceiling. 

This is a _threat_ \- this is a threat against _him_. 

Aziraphale might not be Hell’s jurisdiction, but Crowley, it would seem, still is. 

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s scattered gaze around the bookshop. The creases in his forehead deepen as he turns his attention back to his companion. He lifts a hand to cradle Crowley’s cheek, but Crowley dodges it. 

It takes effort, it takes willpower, but he forces himself to scoot a fraction of an inch away from Aziraphale. 

The blackness on the walls recedes a bit. 

“Crowley?” 

Aziraphale’s voice is but an echo in the dark chasm that the room has become, but nonetheless, it’s assertiveness recaptures Crowley’s attention. He snaps his focus away from the black-bleeding walls of the bookshop and turns instead to look at Aziraphale. His companion’s expression is creased with concern, worry seeping into every line of his face. And despite the space that Crowley has forced between their bodies, Aziraphale has yet to relinquish his grip on Crowley’s thigh. The weight of it is so warm and welcoming that the thought of withdrawing away from it causes a mournful pang in Crowley’s chest. 

He doesn’t want to let this go… 

Crowley’s gut burns with conflict. Unspoken yearning all but commands him to scoot forward again, to move in close to Aziraphale once again, to close the space he’d so nervously placed between them, to soak up whatever affections Aziraphale is willing to give him. 

But he doesn’t move in close again; he can’t. Because no matter their perceived victory, there is something in this shop now that tells Crowley that the forces of Heaven and Hell are still _thoroughly_ pissed off. And the black aura that has consumed the walls continues to close in on them: a threat, telling Crowley in _no_ uncertain terms, that he and his angel are not out of the woods yet. 

So he stays where he is - an inch of forced space between them, and Aziraphale clinging to his thigh as though his life depended on it. 

They’ve denied this for six millennia. Surely another evening of denial won’t hurt. 

That’s the lie Crowley must tell himself for now; the only thing that will allow him to full extricate himself from Aziraphale. 

With an unsteady breath, Crowley settles his hand over Aziraphale’s. It’s warm beneath his touch - so radiant and full of love that Crowley could choke on it. For a split second, he allows himself to linger, his fingers brushing adoringly across the angel’s as though it were the last touch they might have. He cherishes it like it might be. 

The black aura seeping into the shop intensifies at the touch, a wild, angry hum resonating from the walls as the tar-black begins to spread further. 

It takes the last ounce of self-control Crowley possesses, but he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand and removes it from his thigh. He gingerly moves it and settles it back into Aziraphale’s own lap. Aziraphale, rightly so, looks more than a little hurt - and confused - by the sudden rejection. 

Crowley pretends not to notice. 

Crowley clears his throat - forces himself to ignore the pained, confused look Aziraphale is fixating on him - and looks around the bookshop. The walls continue to pulsate with black, angry energy, but it seems less intense now without Aziraphale’s hand on his leg, without the intimacy of their relationship being on display. 

Aziraphale’s gaze - Crowley notes - has not once inspected the room around them. It has instead stayed pointedly fixed on Crowley. 

“I think…” Crowley starts, but pauses, and clears his throat again, “I think I should go.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open a fraction.

“Wh-wha… Go? But why?” 

Crowley - despite his desperate wish that he could puke up some sort of reasonable explanation - offers no answer. Instead, he stands from the couch in one, swift motion and takes a step away from Aziraphale - yet another inch of space between them. He grabs his coat from the desk where he’d discarded it earlier and slips it out without a word. Aziraphale moves to stand just aws abruptly as Crowley had. 

He steps an inch closer, but Crowley take a step back and pretends he doesn’t see the hurt wash over Aziraphale’s face. 

“Darling…” Aziraphale starts, desperately seeking out Crowley’s eyes. But Crowley refuses to meet his gaze. “Crowley, if something’s wrong, you can-” 

“ _Nothing_ is wrong,” Crowley insists before Aziraphale can even finish his sentence. His words are harsh - far harsher than he’d intended - but the black aura around the shop diminishes slightly with his tetchy tone. 

Crowley plasters on a smile. It’s terse and far too unnatural - god, does he ever actually smile? Save for those few times Aziraphale has yanked a guttural laugh from his belly, can he even remember the last time he’d smiled? What does a proper smile even look like? He’s sure it isn’t this - tight lines, firm wrinkles at the corner of his mouth that do not reach his eyes as he lies with a look. He hopes to Someone that the angel believes it. But he knows he doesn’t. 

Aziraphale always sees right through him - and right now, Crowley is sure that Aziraphale can see how afraid he is. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tries again, “We’re in this together, remember? On our own side, like always… Whatever is troubling you, I promise that-” 

Crowley cuts him off again, but with a hug this time instead of a harsh interjection. He yanks Aziraphale towards him and wraps him up in his embrace. The tar-black, demonic aura that’s seeped into the walls flares with anger at the gesture, but Crowley attempts to ignore it, opting to bury his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder instead. He clenches his eyes shut and allows his arms to more fully envelope the angel. His fingers splay across Aziraphale’s back before they curl into and clutch the fabric of his vest, clinging to the garment like a lifeline. If he focuses, he can almost hear the angry hum vibrating through the walls - made worse only by the fact that he knows Aziraphale hasn’t even noticed it. 

“I know,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale winds his arm around Crowley’s middle, a silent embrace of compassion in an otherwise all-too-confusing moment between them. 

Something _rages_ inside Crowley’s chest in this embrace - panic, worry, pain, fear, call it what you will - and he shoves Aziraphale away with swiftness. He keeps his hands planted on the angel’s biceps, but doesn’t relinquish his grip just yet. 

“Listen…” Crowley starts, trying but failing not to sound desperate, “I don’t… I don’t want to go right now, but I need to… Just for tonight, okay?” 

Aziraphale looks _more_ than broken-hearted, his expression so forlorn that Crowley momentarily considers ignoring the danger and embracing him with gusto. Instead, he squeezes Aziraphale’s arm and shoots him a brief, wordless nod. 

“Okay…” The angel replies, defeated. 

“Dinner, though? Yeah?” 

Crowley proposes it like a truce - a middle ground - if only to see how the aura of evil might react.

But it doesn’t. 

“We’ll do dinner tomorrow, okay?” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale murmurs, dejected. He lifts one hand and cups Crowley’s cheek. And despite the black aura that flares with upset at the gesture, Crowley can’t bring himself to draw away from it. 

He lifts his hand and places it over Aziraphale’s on his face and angles his head ever-so-slightly into the angel’s palm. He feels held here. It feels like home. And yet the anger that is building around them is far too much to ignore. 

Hell is still watching them - and Hell is _more_ than angry. He can’t afford to take any chances. He’ll deal with this, Crowley tells himself, he’ll deal with this and then he and Aziraphale can move on with their lives… together. 

He gives Aziraphale’s hand a brief squeeze of reassurance before withdrawing from the touch and taking a step towards the exit of the bookshop with an uneasy huff. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale tries again - a last ditch effort. Crowley can see - no, he can outright _feel_ the longing on Aziraphale’s face as he watches Crowley leave. 

Crowley hesitates once he’s opened the door to the outside world. He spares one last glance back into the shop. Aziraphale meets his eyes with disappointment, but says nothing. Instead, he waves goodbye to Crowley and averts his gaze. With that, Crowley leaves, shutting the door behind him with a firm click. 

It’s only a few strides to the Bentley, and as he opens the driver’s side door, he stares at the bookshop. A thick black aura hovers over its roof, pulsing and throbbing, as though it were alive. For all Crowley knows, it may as well be. He glares at it, slipping off his sunglasses. 

“Leave him alone…” Crowley whispers into the night. 

The black mass stills its quivering from around the bookshop, but it doesn’t retreat. 

**::**


	2. 02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Curled up in Crowley's abandoned bed - Aziraphale suddenly feels very alone. And very helpless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol did i say this chapter would be up by friday? i guess i really meant it'd be up today. hope you enjoy the early update!

**::**

Aziraphale doesn’t see Crowley the next day. 

Nor does he see him the day after that. 

They don’t have dinner. 

Crowley doesn’t even call. 

Aziraphale  _ does  _ call - more than once. He calls Crowley’s home telephone  _ and  _ calls that blasted cellphone Crowley insists on carrying, but he is met with nothing but answering machine messages on both. 

By day four of radio silence, Aziraphale is calling each of Crowley’s telephones more out of habit than with the expectation of an answer. He calls because he needs to; he calls so he can listen to the sound of Crowley's voice on the answering machines. Aziraphale knows, and has accepted after four days, that Crowley will not be answering. But the sound of his voice is comfort enough in his absence. For now, at least. 

He hopes, perhaps more desperately than he cares to admit, to hear from Crowley soon.

Aziraphale tries - so  _ very  _ hard - not to dwell on Crowley’s abrupt exit a few nights ago. He’s not entirely sure if perhaps he overstepped his bounds, was too forward, or had taken things too far. But he’d thought that, given the circumstances, and their developing closeness and new found freedom in the wake of Armageddon, that a small, shared physical gesture of affection was  _ more  _ than earned. Perhaps Crowley disagreed. And it’s not like there’s a rush - they have eternity now to figure this out. They have until the end of time to figure out what exactly lives in the dwindling space between them. But that doesn't mean Aziraphale has to like the wait. 

Perhaps, for once, he has moved too fast for Crowley. 

It seems ridiculous, but it’s a thought he can’t dismiss. 

However, try as he might, Aziraphale cannot forget the look of sheer panic that had settled over Crowley’s face just a few short nights ago. Crowley had been so content at first, so calm and so comfortable, right up until the very moment he  _ wasn’t _ . Like a switch had flipped somewhere in Crowley’s mind, his quiet and serene demeanor, drunk and sitting a bit too close to Aziraphale, had shifted and morphed into something more horrible. Aziraphale doesn’t want to be, but if he’s honest with himself, he would say that Crowley had almost looked  _ afraid _ . Not uncomfortable, not angry:  _ afraid _ . 

Of course, the thought had crossed his mind that, despite their victory, they perhaps weren’t as Off The Hook as they’d hoped. But Heaven and Hell had seemed to leave them alone in the months following the thwarted Apocalypse. It’s been months of peace and quiet by now - he’d thought perhaps… that things had changed. 

But that look on Crowley’s face… that look of utter disturbance and fear. Aziraphale cannot shake it. Which is why, after the fifth night, he grows weary of the radio silence and marches over to Crowley’s flat to bang on his door. 

**::**

It’s three in the morning, and Aziraphale is more than a  _ little  _ drunk on his last few bottles of wine, but there is certainly something to be said about the sense of hardened purposefulness that Aziraphale is feeling right now. He’s never really believed in taking the Most Direct Route towards his goals: always one to defer to the plans that have been set around him as his means to an end. But he figures that since he and Crowley have averted the End of Times, and since God no longer seems to being paying much (or any) attention to either of them, that the only way to resolve an issue _now_ is to resolve it himself. And so, at three in the morning, he heads to Crowley's flat, ready to bang on the door until the blasted demon answers him. 

The Bentley is parked outside Crowley’s building - still and solemn in the darkened evening. Even in its proper parking space, it looks… _lonely_. Neglected, almost. As if it doesn't belong. With a furrowed brow, Aziraphale steps towards it and drags his hand along its shining exterior. His fingers search and feel, looking and sensing for any hint of Crowley's presence, but it's as cold and vacant as a tomb. He frowns at the vehicle, and gives her a loving pat before turning his attention up to Crowley's building.

Standing outside Crowley's door in the middle of the night, Aziraphale begins hammering away and ringing the doorbell, without plans to stop until Crowley answers. 

"Anthony J. Crowley, you open this door _right_ this moment," Aziraphale calls firmly through the door, hoping his voice will be enough to get Crowley to answer him. 

But Crowley _doesn't_ answer, and eventually, after several more prolonged minutes of firm knocking, a neighbor appears in the hall to stop his tirade. 

“He ain’t home, bud,” A voice calls to him from down the hall as Aziraphale is about to begin yet another slew of knock-attacks on the door.  Aziraphale tries not to startle, but does so nonetheless. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your mate, he ain’t in.” 

Aziraphale tries to ignore the way his stomach drops.  _ But the Bentley is here… Surely he must be in…  _

“He’s not home?” 

“I haven’t seen him in days, man. Think you might give the bangin’ a rest?” 

Aziraphale looks at the door - then at his hand, still hovering an inch away from the black wood - and nods at the stranger. He drops his hand and plants his arm firmly at his side, his fingers clenched in a tight fist. 

“Yes, of course…” He murmurs. "My apologies." 

“Yeah, I just… would like to get some sleep before I have to be up for work in like," he pauses and glances at his watch, "three hours, ya know?” 

Aziraphale stares at this man, his head and torso just barely exposed past the threshold of his own flat’s door. This man radiates kindness; Aziraphale senses he can trust him at his word. 

“Just so - I didn’t realize how late it was.” His words are tight in his throat, forced out by sheer willpower in this face of this frustrated - but well-meaning - stranger. “I’ll just…” 

“Look,” The man says, his face softening in what Aziraphale can only guess is pity, “You got a name?” 

“...Aziraphale…” 

“Oof, that’s a mouthful. Okay. Look… uh,” the stranger pauses and looks at Aziraphale expectantly. 

“Aziraphale,” he repeats, patient as always. Humans always struggle when he gives them his real name. 

“ _ Aziraphale _ , when he comes by, I’ll let him know you called on him, okay?” 

“Would you? Oh, thank you…” 

The neighbor nods, but remains in his doorway. It takes a moment before Aziraphale resolves himself to leave; the stranger has undoubtedly sensed his hesitation to go. But Aziraphale nods curtly at the man, then turns on his heels, only to pause in the next instant and turn back. 

“Could you,” Aziraphale starts, his hands twiddling together in front of him, “Could you please tell Mr. Crowley that I’m awfully worried for him?” 

The neighbor nods; understanding graces his face with softness. 

“Of course.” 

“Thank you.” 

**::**

Aziraphale had hoped, _surely_ , that after six days, Crowley might have called?  _ Surely  _ after six days Crowley would have returned to his flat, or received at least  _ one  _ of Aziraphale’s telephone messages? 

Surely, that nice young neighbor of Crowley’s would have relayed his concerned message to Crowley by now. Presuming the demon had been back to his flat at all. 

Aziraphale doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s more than a little worried. 

He has searched about the whole of London - has frequented all of Crowley’s usual haunts, only to be met with blank stares when he’s asked about him, as though the proprietors had never seen nor heard of Crowley before. Aziraphale knows, of course, that can’t be true - he’s  _ been  _ to many of these places with Crowley before, has watched as the owners have greeted the demon with fond familiarity. And yet, when he asks, they look as if he were asking about a total stranger. The demon is nowhere to be found, and it’s more than a little worrisome. And it feels - if only in a small, niggling little way - like Crowley has been all but plucked out of the Earthly plane. 

Aziraphale doesn’t dare linger on that thought. 

Aziraphale, once upon a time, had sometimes gone  _ centuries _ without Crowley by his side. Once upon a time, he was used to the demon popping in and out of his world intermittently and as he pleased. But since the first threat of Armageddon, the two had hardly spent a day apart, stitched in secret to each other's sides like orbiting planets. And even during those times ages ago when they’d spent years apart from each other, Aziraphale had always been able to _sense_ Crowley’s presence on the Earth. Even if the demon wasn’t near him, or speaking to him, smiling at him, Aziraphale had always  _ felt  _ Crowley’s aura on the Earthly Plane. 

But now… it feels different. It doesn't feel right.

Now, when he rings Crowley’s telephone and received no answer, there is a distinct sense of emptiness that hangs in the atmosphere. Now, even as he had banged on the door to Crowley’s flat just a day or so ago, he’d known, somewhere deep down, that Crowley wasn’t there. 

_ Perhaps he was called back down on business,  _ Aziraphale thought to himself. Yes. Surely that must be it. 

But still… he had thought Crowley would have at least  _ called _ . 

And now, Aziraphale is finding it rather difficult to imagine what business Crowley could _possibly_ have to tend to in the wake of the Faux-pocalypse. Lord knows that Heaven hasn’t so much as  _ checked  _ on Aziraphale since that little scene with the Hellfire that Crowley had so cleverly helped him pull off. 

He thinks, yet _again_ , about the nervousness that had graced Crowley’s features the last time he’d seen him. Aziraphale doesn’t much care for the thought, but he has to wonder if perhaps something went wrong that night that he had not sensed. The closeness and lack of reserve Aziraphale had exhibited that night had been new, yes, of course, but he hardly considered it cause for alarm. The space between them has been gradually dwindling since the moment they first met. And yet, the instant Aziraphale had dared to rest a single hand on Crowley’s leg, the aura around them had changed. Rather than soft and jovial, it was worrisome, and uneasy. 

Aziraphale has seen Crowley frightened but a handful of times - but this seemed different. 

And so it is, with more than a little disappointment, that Aziraphale thinks that he may just have to accept that Crowley might simply need space. That he needs time away from angel for one reason or another. Perhaps the touch had been too much. Perhaps its intimacy was undue, and overwhelming, sending Crowley on a quest for isolation. It certainly wouldn't be the first time - the 1800's come to mind. 

But deep down, he knows that isn't it. There is emptiness now in the world, a hole the shape of Crowley's soul, and Aziraphale cannot help but consistently worry that something terrible has happened. 

And so he keeps calling - he calls day after day after day. He leaves more messages than he can count, many of which are brief and simply tell Crowley he is sorry for whatever he has done, others all but  _ beg  _ the demon to return his calls. (Miraculously, Crowley’s answering machine never gets full, no matter how many messages he leaves on the blasted thing.) He only goes by Crowley’s flat during the day - and only twice more since his three AM encounter with Crowley’s young neighbor. He never sees the neighbor again, and he never gets an answer when he bangs on Crowley’s door. 

He wonders - if Crowley truly hasn’t been to his flat for days now - what has become of the plants? Aziraphale hopes they’re thriving. Something tells him they’re not. 

After two weeks, and after another 30 minute session of desperate, late-night knocking on Crowley's door (the neighbor doesn’t come to berate him this time), Aziraphale considers, with no uncertain amount of hesitation, that he should simply miracle the lock open. 

His knocks stutter against Crowley’s door as the thought crosses his mind. He could absolutely do it - there’s nothing  _ physically _ stopping him. But… it would be inappropriate - perhaps even an invasion of privacy. He’s only been inside Crowley’s flat twice - once the evening of Armageddon, and once a few days later because Crowley had invited him there for tea and biscuits (in celebration of their newly found freedom, Crowley had said). 

It seems wrong, he thinks to himself, to force an entry. It seems desperate - but if Aziraphale is honest with himself, he  _ is  _ feeling rather desperate at this point. And so his hand hovers over the door handle to the flat, and he debates whether or not to intrude without invitation. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. His face hardens after another brief moment of consideration and makes his decision: forced entry is  _ more  _ than justified. 

Before he can think twice about it, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and the locks pops open with a loud click. He stares at the door handle briefly before shaking his head and restoring his resolve. With a quick turn of the handle and a shove, Aziraphale pushes the door to the flat open. It creaks as it opens, and thuds against the entry hall wall with a soft thump. He leans forward a little to stare inside but he doesn’t dare cross the threshold yet. The interior of the flat is shrouded in darkness - not a single lamp or overhead light lit in the place - and silence pervades from every room. 

A chill settles over Aziraphale; it’s like staring into a tomb. 

Aziraphale forces the lump in his throat down. 

“C-Crowley?” He calls out into the flat, still not daring to cross the threshold. No response comes. 

He tries again, and is met still with only silence. 

Aziraphale sucks his lower lip into his mouth, worrying the flesh as he teeters forward and peeks into the apartment. There is a heavy chill that lingers in the air of the flat - it’s stagnant and still, as if the cool air inside the home hasn’t been disturbed in God only knows how long. He’s not proud of his lack of courage, because Aziraphale will admit that it takes more than a little self-coaching to convince himself to actually step past the threshold and into the seemingly abandoned apartment. 

“Crowley?” He mutters as he enters. He closes the door behind him with a soft click and fumbles across the wall of the foyer to find the light switch. Soft, white light bathes the hallway and at first, Aziraphale doesn’t notice anything amiss. He takes a few hesitant steps down the hall, towards the office. He drags his fingers along the walls as he goes, hoping for a flicker of energy or a spark of Crowley's presence somewhere within their structure: he finds none. What he _does_ find however, are small indentations along the wall - linear grooves, in line with each other, and a couple inches long, that have been scraped into the stone walls. Aziraphale stops, his eyes widening as he inspects them more closely. 

There are four cracked grooves in the foyer wall - distinct and harsh, like the kind of marks that _fingernails_ might make as they were desperately clutching for purchase. Hot bile rises in Aziraphale’s throat. Turning away, he quickens his pace and rushes into the office, flicking on the light as he enters. 

“Crowley?!” 

The room is in utter disarray. Crowley’s desk has been tipped over - as has his chair. Crowley’s answering machine, as well as a myriad of papers, are strewn across the floor in an awful mess. The answering machine still appears functional. Its red light blinks a bright “32” across its face, a testament to all the voice messages Aziraphale has left him over the last couple weeks. 

There are no obvious stains or spoils on the floor - aside from the giant black goo-mark left by Ligur - and that alone offers Aziraphale a modicum of relief. Certainly, whoever was here wouldn’t have attempted to kill Crowley - not after the failed debacle that was ‘Crowley’s’ trial down in Hell. But Aziraphale still can’t rule it out as a possibility. He stumbles out of the office and heads towards the conservatory. 

He stops dead in his tracks in the open doorway. The plants are a  _ mess _ . Each and every one of them has been demolished, ripped apart, strewn across the room. Dirt and pieces of torn-up leaves litter the once-pristine slate floor. Aziraphale sinks down to his knees at the sight of the massacre. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a thoughtless act of destruction - this was  _ personal _ . 

This was Hell’s… or perhaps Heaven’s… doing - there was no other explanation. 

_Oh God, why hadn't he broken into the flat sooner?_

Aziraphale crawls over to one of the larger plants: the poor thing’s roots are barely clinging to its tipped over pot. He sets it right and waves a tender hand across it: the dirt in the pot restores, its stalks un-bend, and its leaves become whole again. 

“There, there…” He whispers to it, comforting; he hopes that it’s listening. He spares a glance around the room again and focuses his energy on all the other plants. He makes sure to right them all as best he can, restoring them (more or less) to their former beauty. Crowley wouldn’t want to see them like this… 

Aziraphale licks his lips and feels his throat grow tight. The room - despite his efforts to mend its demolished state - still looks unkempt and disheveled. The plants look better, but the dirt on the floor is only a testament to whatever sort of struggle took place here. He clenches his eyes shut - tight enough to will back whatever tears might be threatening to spill out - and stands on his quivering, unsteady legs. 

With haggard steps, he abandons the conservatory and moves in the direction of Crowley’s bedroom.

He’s never actually seen the inside of Crowley’s bedroom. The night after Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t even bothered to sleep - too busy plotting their ruse to concern themselves with something as trivial as rest. And the other time he had come over (just to spend time with the dear boy), Aziraphale had drank far too much and had passed out on the sofa. He can't recall where Crowley fell asleep that evening, perhaps on the floor below the couch, near where Aziraphale slept? If Aziraphale thinks very hard about that evening, he can just vaguely recall letting his fingers card affectionately through Crowley’s bright red locks as he’d drifted off into unconsciousness. 

But that is neither here nor there. 

What  _ is  _ here is an empty room, an empty flat, and no Crowley. 

Aziraphale approaches the bed with caution. It isn’t made up, its comforters disheveled, and the pillows strewn every which way as though it had been comfortably slept in. There is a dent of wrinkles in the middle of the sheets that are vaguely reminiscent of Crowley’s shape. Aziraphale lets out an uneasy breath and settles down onto the edge of the bed. 

His hand hovers above the mattress before he allows it to settle over it. His fingers sprawl and spread across the space where Crowley had once slept. If he closes his eyes and focuses, he can just barely feel the remnants of Crowley’s essence in this very spot. He’d been here just a couple weeks ago, but the remains of his aura have all but faded, leaving little more than a faint hint of the demon in their wake. 

Aziraphale sighs and slowly tilts his body to the side, moving to lie down in the space where Crowley had once slept. In the back of his head, he knows he must do something, but for the first time in his life, he finds he has no idea of what to do, or where to go. 

He turns his head and buries his face down into the sheets and the mattress. With a deep and weary inhale, he breathes in every speck that is left of Crowley: his scent, his aura, all of the emotions he has let linger and live within these fabrics. There was love here once, Aziraphale can sense it. Although, it is a love Aziraphale cannot seem to place or define. There was love, and despair, and joy, and comfort, all within the confines of this bed. This is too much, far too much, even for an angel, and yet it is still so far away from him. Aziraphale turns his head to the side, his cheek resting against the bed as he feels a tear slip from his eye and down his temple. 

“Crowley, where are you?” He whimpers into the empty room. 

Aziraphale clenches his eyes shut and toes off his shoes. He draws his legs up onto the bed, curling up as he draws one of Crowley’s pillows into his body. He clutches at it, buries his face and nose into it, desperate for just one more inkling of his demon’s presence. But the feeling of him is fleeting and discorporate. Aziraphale aches to think of what that might mean. 

Curled up in Crowley's abandoned bed - Aziraphale suddenly feels very alone. And very helpless.

“Crowley…” 

**::**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for reading! stay tuned for the next chapter, once again hoping to have it up by this weekend. 
> 
> you can also come yell at me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


	3. 03

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t recognize this place upon first glance, and yet, when he steps towards the far wall and presses a tentative hand against it, he could swear that it feels familiar. Palm flat against the ashy structure, his fingers curl, his nails scraping into the char. He closes his eyes and tries to take the room’s history into himself. Something intimate and far too recognizable floods through his arm and into his chest, spurring his eyes to fling open._
> 
> _“Oh, god…” He whispers to himself, stepping away from the wall._
> 
> _This is his flat above the bookshop. This is his bedroom. Or... was his bedroom._
> 
> _There is nothing distinct about its outward appearance, but he can sense it to his very core._
> 
> _This was his home. And now…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, finally got this chapter edited! so glad to finally have it up. guess quarantine is good for something.

**::**

_The room Aziraphale awakens into is dark. It’s not a pitch-black sort of darkness, not quite: if he squints, he can still see. But this darkness is the overbearing sort, the kind that creeps along the edges of your periphery, threatening and haunting with its vile ichor. It threatens to black you out, to disregard and erase you, and yet it truly attacks. There, too, is a hefty weight of desolation that invades Aziraphale's body like a cancer. It claws its way straight into his chest as Aziraphale blinks the bleariness from his gaze. His vision is fogged and hazy here, as if heavy with sleep, like being awoken from the deepest of dreams. He rubs at his eyes, frantic to just get his bearings, to see something. But there is little here to be seen._

_As his eyes adjust, he realizes there is a faint glow across the room: a deep red and orange like a burning ember, glowing along the edges of what should be Crowley's bedroom door. It isn’t much, but it is enough. The glow is an outline, a faint rectangle along the edges of a closed door._

_Aziraphale distinctly remembers leaving Crowley's bedroom door open when he came in.  
_

_He has no idea where he is, or if he is even still in Crowley's flat, but he can still feel the plushness of Crowley’s bed beneath his body. Wherever he is, there is at least a piece of Crowley with him. Aziraphale pushes himself up to sit and proceeds to stand from the mattress; his legs feel unsteady, wavering a bit beneath the weight of his body, but he finds his footing soon enough. He peers at the faint umber glow around the door._ _Cocking his head to the side, Aziraphale takes a cautious few steps towards it. He notes, as he draws closer, that the door appears to be made of metal, and not concrete, like most of the other doors in Crowley’s flat. And it is old - its surface rusted and worn, wrought iron eaten away and flaking with the decay of time. Once he draws near enough, Aziraphale places a hesitant hand atop the metal. It is rough to the touch, and cold as a tomb, and he yanks it away as though its icy sting had burnt him._

_This is not a door in Crowley’s flat - of that, Aziraphale is sure._

_Swallowing down whatever anxiety has begun to pool in his gut, he places his hand on the door again and gives it a firm shove. It groans in protestation, but opens nonetheless. Beyond it, Aziraphale gazes into an empty hallway - just as a dark as the bedroom, illuminated only by the same dim ember-glow. Aziraphale doesn’t want to step forward, doesn’t want to leave the relative comfort of what he believes might still be Crowley’s bedroom, but something tells him that he must. And so, with a slow inhale, he pushes himself forward, over the threshold, out of the bedroom, and into this mysterious hall._

_The first thing he notices is that the hallway is long. Far longer than any hallway in Crowley’s flat. The second thing he notices is that the walls of this hallway appear to also be made of the same decrepit metal as the door that had led him here. Nowhere does he see the distinct slate grey of Crowley’s minimalist concrete walls, but rather a corridor that was better suited for the rundown basement level of a warehouse. Against his better judgment, Aziraphale begins to walk forward, following the hallway towards its end. He drags his fingers along the wall as he moves, only to find that it is as cold as the door. Pulling his hand back towards himself, he finds the tips of his fingers are painted in a rusty red color._

_A dark thought in the back of his mind tells him it is not dissimilar to the color of Crowley’s hair._

_A darker thought tells him that, in this light, it is almost the color of blood._

_He pushes it from his mind and focuses on his forward steps, forcing his feat to lead him further down the hallway. If he peers ahead into the darkness, he can just barely make out another door at the end of it. Whatever room lies beyond that far door must be better lit than this hallway if the hot-burning glow around the door’s gaps are anything to go by. Aziraphale hesitates and dares a glance back over his shoulder in the direction he came from, but he finds nothing but hallway behind him. The door that had taken him out of Crowley’s bedroom is gone, replaced instead by a throbbing, empty darkness._

_His breath catches in his throat._

_Aziraphale has never been to Hell - a fact he prides himself on. Hell is not a place for Angels. It is hardly, he imagines, a place for Crowley. But that is a thought better left for another day. He’s never been to Hell, but he has to imagine that this must be what some of its darkest recesses look like. He has heard that the upper layers more resemble an unpleasant office, but the nether realms are something else, something closer to the very human idea of fire and brimstone… He shudders to wonder. And he fears that he might be looking at it now._

_Aziraphale closes his eyes and pictures the flaming sword he had once called his own. He imagines its strength, solid and warm in his palm, and allows the memory of it to serve as a momentary emotional crutch. He may not have the sword with him physically, but its power has never left him. The strength that his Mother instilled in it is with him still; he just has to find it again. With one low, deep breath, Aziraphale straightens his back, evens his shoulders, and opens his eyes to stare down the hallway before him._

_His gaze focuses on the door at the end of the hall and with whatever momentary resolve he has found, he forces himself onward. Aziraphale’s steps are quick and sure, and before he knows it, he has reached and opened the far door, shoving it forward with one hand._

_It stutters and creaks as it opens: loud, clanging, and angry with him for disturbing its stillness. The rust on its surface flakes and sticks to his palm as he pulls away, little remnants of its rot left on his skin. Absently, he wipes his hand on his trousers. On any other occasion, he might have bemoaned dirtying his pants with such a horrendous materal, but here? Aziraphale cannot make himself care. There are larger things here, more important things behind this door, he’s sure of it. He doesn’t have it in him to mind a smudge of rust on his pant leg._

_Once the door is open, Aziraphale peers inside the room. It's lit much more brightly in here than the hallway behind him, but the room is still littered with shadow and hidden corners. It appears to be a large, but empty room. The walls are a similar bloodied umber color as the walls of the hallway, but rather than metal, they appear to be made of wood or plaster - it’s difficult to tell, however, because they appear to be burnt. They are dark and scorched, as though they were coated in ash, charred by an angry blaze. There is a thick layer of dust and debris littered across the floor - little remnants of paper here and there, as well as leaves, soot, wood, and god only knows what else. If he peers close enough at the floor, Aziraphale could swear he sees the charred remains of a book or two, hiding away in the corners.  
_

_The scent of burning fire still lingers in the air. Unpleasant. Thick. His nose twitches at it and his brow furrows as he steps forward into the room._

_He doesn’t recognize this place upon first glance, and yet, when he steps towards the far wall and presses a tentative hand against it, he could swear that it feels familiar. Palm flat against the ashy structure, his fingers curl, his nails scraping into the char. He closes his eyes and tries to take the room’s history into himself. Something intimate and far too recognizable floods through his arm and into his chest, spurring his eyes to fling open._

_“Oh, god…” He whispers to himself, stepping away from the wall._

_This is his flat above the bookshop. This is his bedroom. Or... was his bedroom._

_There is nothing distinct about its outward appearance, but he can sense it to his very core._

_This was his home. And now…_

_The thought is cut short when something shuffles somewhere across the room. Aziraphale startles and turns toward the sound in a flurry, eyes desperate as they scan the room._

_His gaze finally settles on a lean figure, huddled away in the shadows._

_“Who’s there?” He calls out; despite his best efforts, his voice quivers._

_The figure doesn’t say anything, but he does step forward out of the shadows. Aziraphale's eyes widen._

_“...Crowley? Is that you?”_

_Crowley won’t look at him. Aziraphale stares at him, waiting almost expectantly for him to say something, or look at him, or do something. But he doesn’t. Instead, Crowley keeps his head turned to the side, staring at one of the far walls. Aziraphale dares a step closer, taking in the sight of the demon. Crowley is wearing his usual attire, but it is disheveled and rumpled. Pieces are torn from his collar and lapels. There are spots where the ash and dust have clung to the blackness of his fabric, sullying his otherwise pristine appearance. His hair is a mess, and there is soot smeared across his cheeks. His hands are grimed and blackened, fingernails caked in dark ash and dirt.  
_

_“Crowley, my God, what… What happened to you?”_

_Aziraphale closes the distance between them, and it’s only once he’s closer that he realizes that Crowley’s eyes are half-lidded and glossy, almost dazed, completely unfocused or uncaring of Aziraphale's presence._

_“Crowley?” Aziraphale tries again._

_He lifts a hesitant hand to Crowley’s face. He pauses just before he makes contact with Crowley’s skin, as if waiting for permission. But Crowley gives him no response at all. With a thick gulp, Aziraphale cups Crowley’s jaw with care._

_Crowley jumps at the touch and wrenches himself away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale draws his hand back instantly, holding it up as if to show that he doesn't not mean any harm. Something sick and painful roils in Aziraphale's gut, bubbling up into his throat, but he swallows it.  
_

_“Darling, it’s okay,” Aziraphale attempts to soothe, but Crowley is looking at him like a wild animal. His serpentine eyes are blown and frantic; for a brief moment, he appears feral. He looks.. like Aziraphale had always imagined a demon might look (before he’d met Crowley, of course)._

_“It’s only me…” Aziraphale reassures him again._

_Crowley blinks few times, as if coming back to himself. He tilts his head and stares at Aziraphale._

_“Angel?”_

_“Yes, darling, it’s me… Wh-what happened to you, where have you been all this time?”  
_

_Crowley doesn’t answer his questions._

_“Angel…” he repeats instead, disbelief palpable in his tone._

_Crowley steps forward with trepidation, moving back across the space he had put between them just a moment ago. His hands reach out for Aziraphale and land, trembling and unsure, atop his shoulders. Crowley’s brow furrows as he touches Aziraphale and his breath grows a little uneven. His fingers are a twitching presence against Aziraphale’s shoulders and biceps, moving, not stopping, touching as though he has to reassure himself that Aziraphale is there. His hands smear dirt and soot across Aziraphale’s coat, but much like the rust-red stain on his trousers, Aziraphale cannot bring himself to care._

_“You-” Crowley starts, but hitches his voice and stops._

_Aziraphale lifts his hands again to Crowley’s face, cupping his jaw on either side and guiding Crowley’s eyes to meet his own._

_“Crowley, what happened?”_

_“They…”_

_But Crowley cannot make the words come out. He shakes his head and drops his gaze to Aziraphale’s chest._

_“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale whispers, weakness quivering his voice as finds his eyes beginning to grow glassy, “talk to me, please… Are you hurt?”_

_But Crowley says nothing. Instead, he bows forward and presses his forehead into Aziraphale’s chest. His hands still clutch at Aziraphale’s biceps, the strength of the grip almost painful. Aziraphale whimpers as fear coils in him; his lip trembles and he feels a hot tear slip down his cheek. Desperate, he rests one hand on the back of Crowley’s neck, petting the hair there, and brings the other around his back._

_“Please,” Aziraphale begs, voice wet, “talk to me…”_

_“No,” Crowley whimpers suddenly._

_“What?”_

_Crowley shakes his head against Aziraphale’s chest._

_“No, no, not again, no.”_

_“Crowley, w-what?”_

_Crowley yanks out of his arms and takes a half-step back._

_Aziraphale is staring at Crowley's frantic face, but Crowley is staring down at Aziraphale’s feet._

_“I can’t, not again…” Crowley cries, his voice barely a whisper above his tremor._

_“You can’t what? What are you-”_

_Aziraphale stops short as he feels something hot against his feet. He yanks his gaze down, following Crowley’s eyes, towards the floor beneath him. Bright, horrendous flames lick around his feet and ankles._

_“Crowley?” Aziraphale implores, suddenly desperate, lifting his gaze to Crowley again._

_The demon has his own fingers threaded with dread into his hair and he stares at Aziraphale in abject horror. He’s shaking._

_The flames begin to creep upwards, engulfing Aziraphale's shins, then knees, then thighs. And, oh God, it burns. It_ _burns! The flesh of his form blisters and bubbles beneath the burning fabric of his pants. He wants to scream out, but he cannot find his voice, he wants to run away, but his body will not move from this place._

_“Angel, no…” Crowley cries, falling to his knees._

_The flames are up to his stomach now and Crowley is crawling towards him, kneeling at his blistering feet._

_“Not again, please…” the demon pleads._

_Aziraphale longs to call Crowley’s name, but the flames are at his neck now, and the heat has swallowed his air. His voice, whatever breath he might have had left in his chest, they are gone now, devoured by the roaring blaze of what Aziraphale knows to be hellfire._

_This is it._

_He’s going to die._

_And Crowley is watching, Crowley is pleading and sobbing at his feet, reaching into the fire to grapple at the marred flesh of Aziraphale's body. And Aziraphale does not know how to comfort him. He has no voice, he has no sound, he cannot even find the angelic love he has always possessed; it has been devoured now, too, lost in the sulfuric sting of the hellfire that encompasses him._

_Fire blocks out his eyes, blinding him with white-hot fury, until he can no longer see or feel the demon at his feet._

_Unable to fight, unable to speak, Aziraphale let’s go._

_He succumbs, if only because he does not know what else to do._

_As his mind begins to fade, he can just barely hear Crowley screaming his name._

**_“Aziraphale!”_ **

**::**

Aziraphale’s eyes yank open with a pained hiss of breath through his nose. His heart, his oh-so human heart, is pounding in his chest, even as he finds himself waking in Crowley’s bedroom. His chest heaves; his uneven and shaking breaths quivering from mouth as he pushes himself up off the mattress and looks around the room. 

Crowley's room is just as it is supposed to be. No undue darkness, no burning smells, no unfamiliar doors in unfamiliar places. And when he gets up and darts out into the hallway, he is relieved to find that the rest of Crowley’s flat is waiting for him beyond it. 

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he steps out of Crowley’s bedroom and makes his way back towards the conservatory. 

The plants are just as he’d left them, on the mend and some even appear to be doing a little bit better with the help of his angelic affection from earlier. But the floor is still a mess of dirt and debris. With a long exhale, Aziraphale wills it all to one side of the room, clearing a large space in the middle of it. He brings both hands to his face, covering his nose and his mouth, as he stands in the middle of the room and thinks. 

He needs to speak with the Almighty - She is the only One who might have answers for him. She is the only One who could possibly help. And yet… 

He hasn’t heard Her voice in 6,000 years. She has not bestowed Her word upon him since he’d given Her sword away to the humans all those years ago. 

He does not know if he even has Her favor anymore.

But he doesn’t know where else to turn. 

He cannot go to the Archangels, there is too a high a chance they’re involved with whatever has become of Crowley. And he certainly can’t afford to speak with the Metatron again. He has no choice but to implore directly with the Almighty. Aziraphale steeples his trembling hands against his face before dropping them to his sides in tight fists. He stares upwards at the slate-grey ceiling of Crowley’s conservatory and drops down to his knees. 

“Mother?” Aziraphale asks, bringing his hands into a prayer position in front of him, unsure of how else to conjure Her voice to him. It has been so long since he has asked. 

He keeps his gaze fixed upwards, expectant, hopeful, filled with the ridiculous idea that She might actually answer one of Her most troublesome principalities. 

“Mother, please…” He begs, but the room stays silent around him. 

Aziraphale clenches his eyes shut and lets his arms fall limply to his sides, abandoning the pointless gesture of prayer he had plastered on. 

“Please, Lord… I cannot seek guidance from the Archangels. I cannot speak to the Metatron. I _must_ convene with You, Mother. I beg of You…” Aziraphale pauses, swallowing the painful lump in his throat, “In the name of _love_ , I _beg_ You to speak with me… Just once more.”

Aziraphale waits for a brief moment before prying his eyes open. He doesn’t know what he’d expected when he looked up at the ceiling; perhaps he’d foolishly hoped that She might send him a glimmer of Her presence, just a glint of Her light to let him know that She was listening. But there is nothing, just the same, empty grey of Crowley's flat. 

Aziraphale’s eyes begin to sting, so he clenches them shut and shakes his head. 

“I…” He starts, stopping to sniffle, and wipe his tearful eyes, “I gave the sword away. That’s what You wanted me to say, isn’t it? You already knew it - how could You not? But… I-I confess it. I gave it to the humans. They needed it… And I hid it. But I confess it to You freely now. I will lie to You no longer. But _please_ speak to me.” 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches - a painful hiccup that renders his voice little more than a whimper. 

“Please… I fear for my friend.” 

Something warm and full rushes into the room, sucking the air out of his corporation’s lungs. Had he been human, he’s sure he might have collapsed from its suddenness. Brightness flares behind his closed eyelids, a painful glow that he hesitates to gaze upon. 

Oh, Heaven, oh, Mother... Has it really been so long? 

_“Aziraphale.”_

“Mother?” 

_“Open your eyes, child. You may gaze upon Me.”_

With a stuttered breath, Aziraphale pries his eyes open. 

What had once been the cold grey of Crowley’s ceiling is now awash in white and blue. It is a blinding display of Holy fire, righteous and overwhelming. A tear slips from Aziraphale’s cheek as he gazes upon Her for the first time in millennia. 

How he has missed Her...

“Mother…” He whimpers. 

_“Yes, you called to Me.”_

Aziraphale shakes his head, curt, to jar his mind back to himself. 

“Y-yes. Yes, I have.” 

_“You wish to speak with Me about the demon Crowley_.” 

“Yes,” He admits, voice just barely a whisper beneath Her gaze. 

_“Then speak.”_

“Mother, I… I should not ask this of You, I know, but… Where is he? I have not heard from him in weeks now. I cannot sense him here… I cannot even feel him on the Earthly plane. And I fear for him, fiercely. I have had awful visions, and I am afraid.” 

The Almighty does not answer him at first, and the weight of Her hesitation sits heavy upon his breast. 

Finally, after an arduous few moments, She speaks again.

_“You cannot sense him because he is no longer here, Aziraphale.”_

“What?” 

_“He is gone now, removed from Earthly plane.”_

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, despair etched into every crease of his brow. He is sure that the Almighty can sense his terror - the discord of his fear is deafening, even to him. 

“...Gone? He’s…”

Dead? Destroyed? 

He can’t even bring himself to say the words. 

_“Hell has reclaimed him, Aziraphale.”_

“Is he… is he alive?” 

“ _Yes, My love._ ” 

“Can I find him? I must find him… Would You allow it? I-” Aziraphale pauses, clenches his eyes shut and drops his gaze from the ceiling. If there were any being in this universe that he could show weakness before, he knows it is his Almighty Mother. But he doesn’t _want_ to be weak before Her. He wants to be weak with Crowley. He wants _Crowley_ here now, an arm around his shoulder, comforting him as painful tears stream down his cheeks. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches on a sob, and he shakes his head. It takes a moment, a moment basked in his Mother’s patience, but Aziraphale finally swallows his pride and speaks the truth he is sure She already knows. 

“I cannot remain in this world without him - I do not _want_ to.” 

_“Nor should you._ ” 

Aziraphale yanks his tear-stained eyes back up to Her. 

“ _Your sword, Aziraphale. You confess you gave it away?_ ” 

“Yes, Mother. I’m… I’m _sorry_. Forgive me. The humans, they needed it… And I-” 

“ _You need not repent. You did well, My child. And you have not lost it._ ” 

“What?”

“S _earch inside yourself and you will find the strength that I bestowed unto you. You are a Principality, Aziraphale, of My realm, and always will be. You are the guardian to whom I bestowed a weapon of holy power. The sword is not gone. Just as the demon Crowley is not gone. But you must find him again, or you will lose him._ ” 

“I don’t underst-” 

“ _Lord Beelzebub and their underlings have reclaimed him - not at My request, but rather that of the Morning Star. He has been taken to the pit, My child. He is in Hell, whether he realizes it or not. And they will not release him._ ” 

“And I?”

“ _You must go to him. It will not be easy to bring him back, though._ ” 

“I-I will try, with Your guidance,” Aziraphale pauses, dropping his gaze to the floor, before lifting it back up towards the light, “May I ask one more thing?” 

“ _Of course, dearest Aziraphale._ ” 

He sucks in an uneasy breath - She already knows what he is about to ask, but he must ask it anyway. 

“Why did You cast him out? How could someone like him ever deserve that? I-” Aziraphale stops short, afraid in the presence of his Creator, to admit all of his transgressions against Her and his heavenly brethren. 

“I have… done worse deeds than he ever did. Why did he have to fall?” 

Aziraphale should not ask such things of Her - he _knows_ this. Decisions of the Almighty are not to be questioned. He is on a fast track now to falling himself; this is blasphemy, the sort of impudence that has earned countless others a violent expulsion from the Light. But his Mother… She does not seem to mind his questions. 

Instead, She seems to contemplate them. She does not answer him for several moments, but even in Her silence, Aziraphale does not feel afraid. And so he waits, patient as he can be with the urgency of his fear for Crowley swirling about inside of him. 

After several long beats of his heart, She answers. 

“ _He did not belong with Me._ ” 

Aziraphale’s face falls before it scrunches up in agony. He clenches his eyes as a new onslaught of tears threaten to spill from them. The pain that boils inside him at Her answer is far too much - he cannot look to Her. He shakes his head - denial - and when he speaks, his voice is far more broken than he wishes it were. 

“But he is _good_ …” 

She doesn’t hesitate to respond this time. 

“ _Yes. He is._ ” 

“Then I must know… _why_ ? Why banish him? Why make him _suffer_ if he is _good_?” 

No matter how much Aziraphale tries to hold it back, he cannot stop the sob that stutters from his chest. 

“ _Do not cry, Aziraphale. My decision brought him to you, did it not?_ ” 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches, and he forces his gaze back up towards the ceiling, towards his Mother as She continues to speak. 

“ _Do you think you would have come across each other if not for the Garden? His suffering was never My intention, but sometimes the paths you must walk are arduous. Sometimes the roads are winding. These things, My child, I wish I could make you understand, but they are -_ ” 

“Ineffable…” Aziraphale finishes. 

“ _Yes_ ,” She affirms, “ _Crowley is yours, Aziraphale. And you are his. I brought you together. You are complimentary pieces of a singular entity: never to be apart._ ” 

The Almighty pauses, Her warmth encompassing Aziraphale in comfort. 

“ _You must go to the depths of the Pit. My light will not shine there - but there will be a guide for you. Trust him. He was one of My children once, as well, and he yearns for the Light still. He will find you and he will take you to your demon. You will bring Crowley back._ ” 

Tears pour now from Aziraphale’s eyes as he stares into the blinding light of his Creator. He nods his understanding. 

“Yes, Mother, I will.” 

“ _You will have to fight for him, Aziraphale, but not in the way you expect to fight. Find your strength. Fortify your heart, find your conviction to him; he will need it._ ” 

“I-I don’t understand.” 

“ _Go now… He waits for you._ ” 

A bubbling sound draws Aziraphale’s attention away from the Almighty. To his right, a puddle of black begins to blister and churn on the floor beside him. It is a inky, haggard splotch of ichor, but it is outlined by the blue-white light of Heaven’s touch. It’s a portal, made of blackened symbols and sigils that Aziraphale can hardly recognize: a demonic, foreign language to his angelic eyes. The marks are inked in black, like the darkest of bloods, but he knows that his Mother has created this for him. 

This will take him to Hell. 

On unsteady legs, Aziraphale stands. He dares another glance upwards, just as the light from his Mother begins to fade. 

“ _Go… Be strong, My principality._ ” She whispers to him, just before Her essence blinks out of existence. 

He turns his attention back to the portal of bubbling ooze before him. 

“I’m coming, Crowley...” 

And without another thought, Aziraphale steps forward, allowing the blackness to encompass and swallow him, dragging him down. 

::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, if you like this fic, let me know :D i thrive off y'all's feedback, and in this trying time, i think we all need a little encouragement. 
> 
> next chapter is in the process of being written and edited. i hope it have it out within the next week. 
> 
> you can also give this fic a reblog [over here on tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/614980203292344320/to-rot-to-dream-to-disappear)

**Author's Note:**

> gah, thank you for reading so far! next chapter should be up by next week (Saturday or Sunday, probably, maybe Friday though since I have company coming in, I might try to knock it out early). 
> 
> future chapters will be NSFW. 
> 
> if you're enjoying it so far, please feel free to drop me a comment! or come harass me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche).
> 
> [rebloggable version](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/612078711948312576/to-rot-to-dream-to-disappear)


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